


Other Voices in A City of Dreamers

by Hawkeye01



Category: Jem and the Holograms - All Media Types
Genre: Actors, Anthology, Canon Trans Character, Gen, Musicians, Nonbinary Character, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26632366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawkeye01/pseuds/Hawkeye01
Summary: We're all familiar with groups such as the Holograms, Misfits, and Stingers– possibly even smaller bands like the Limp Lizards. But what about the artists and performers who we haven't seen? Snobbish DJs with massive chips on their shoulders and equally massive grudges against people who supposedly robbing him of his chance to make it big, former teen sitcom stars staring down the barrel of an existential crisis, tough-as-nails socially active Latina punk rockers, mysterious uncannily androgynous fiddlers– all these and more, told in their own words.
Kudos: 1





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> The version of the Jem ‘verse seen here is a composite of the original cartoon and the recent IDW comics. As such, expect some degree of spoilers for the latter.

For over a century, Los Angeles’s held the reputation of a beacon for creators of all stripes. Writers, directors, poets, actors, craftsmen, designers, artists, and musicians– local and out-of-towner alike, all come LA to get just a ghost of a chance to make their dreams reality, each hoping that with blood, sweat, tears, and a little luck, they can get that record deal, sell that screenplay, get their design on a runway or land that sweetheart role in the next big picture. As far as they’re concerned, the world’s their oyster once they make it in LA.

Thing is, the city’s just as likely to break dreams as it is to make them come true. The big fish– the managers, the talent scouts, and agents of all types– they get the pick of the pond, while little minnows– the ones who can’t hack it, and even some of the ones who do– well, they get crushed into caviar and/or screwed over (oftentimes literally) by the very people they trusted to help make their dreams come true. True, it’s possible for some intrepid souls to go indie, but it’s a long fall either way. Some manage to climb back up, but a lot more end up as broken, burnt-out husks with nothing to show for their troubles but empty pockets, dashed dreams, and an addiction or three.

Real tragedy’s when all that shit happens to folks outside the whole cishet WASP paradigm. They say that once you bust into the entertainment biz, people gradually stop caring as much about the color of your skin, what type of people you sleep with, or if your gender don’t necessarily match what’s in your underpants. For some trans or enby kid getting the shit kicked outta ‘em in some gutter in a place like La Caldera, making that kinda big break must seem like an answer to all their prayers. Which is why it’s so goddamn heartbreaking to see that they have to go through just as much– if not more– bullshit. Like the guys who can get ‘em inside’re just pulling away the football again and again.

As for the successes– talent surprisingly comes second in this town. Truth is, it’s all about connections and money. Exhibit A for the jury– that Misfits poster. Don’t let their good looks take you in– they’re nowhere in the same neighborhood as punk. That green-haired chick throwing the horns– y’know, Pizzazz? It’s all an act. Her real name’s Phyllis, she’s loaded, and she’s living in her daddy’s big-ass beachfront mansion. In other words, she and her gal pals are poseurs extraordinaire and getting paid big bucks for it. At least the Holograms and the Stingers’re honest about what they play.

But there’s a whole lot more in heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in the entertainment biz or the “conventional” indie circuit– by which I mean a whole lot more voices that get drowned out by outfits like 5x5’s resident songbirds. Let’s get their perspective, shall we?


	2. Warehouse 85- DJ JSB

For the uninitiated, Warehouse 85 used to be based outta an actual abandoned warehouse down in the Wholesale District. Don’t ask me why they still call it that despite moving to a better place out in Malibu a few years back– must be branding or something. More to the point, if you’re looking to break into the rock (especially punk) or electronica scene, then this is a real good place to catch some eyes and turn some heads, whether you’re up on the stage or mingling with the clientele. It ain’t anywhere near as prestigious or classy as a place like Dorsey’s, but since when did punk care about sophistication? Anyhow, let’s work tonight’s crowd, shall we?

First order of business– the night’s soundtrack. Folks on the floor don’t really give too much of a shit about it apart from it being a catchy beat for ‘em to cut a rug to. Sure, some of ‘em might be able to recognize it as a remix of “Ode to Joy”– but again, who cares? This is a night on the town, not a Boston Pops concert. Though speaking of other music acts, this place is crawling with ‘em tonight.

Take that chica at the bar– the one with the eyepatch and the bottle of rat’s piss in her hand. Yeah, I know the label says “Corona”, but anyone who calls it beer is either lying, stupid, or so deep in denial they could be mistaken for a hippo. Anyhow, she’s Elaina Vasquez– frontwoman for some Latin punk outfit called Feathered Serpents. If you haven’t heard of them, you damn well will soon, ‘cause she and her bandmates’re going viral– something about Internet whiners wailing about “cultural Marxism” or them “being too political” just because a whole lot of their tracks focus on social justice or Latinx issues or some other shit I don’t really get. What I _do_ get is that they’ve been putting out a lotta damn good tracks. I mean, if you’re gonna be focusing on race relations or politics or whatever, at least you can make it catchy.

Contrast them with that guy up on stage– yeah, the one on the decks. They call him “DJ J.S.B”– stage name like that, you can already tell he’s probably kinda a shit person. And if what I’ve heard about him through the grapevine is anything to go by, then he’s got what the Germans call a “Backpfeifengesicht”– a face in need of a fist. Still, he’s got some kinda story, so might as well have a listen…

* * *

**DJ J.S.B**

“Fuck Jem and the Holograms, fuck the Misfits, fuck the Stingers, and most of all, fuck 5x5 Records. What have they got that I don’t? Musical talent? Don’t make me laugh– half those chumps couldn’t carry a tune to save their lives. Good looks? Even ignoring that whale the Misfits call a keytar player, Roxy’s got a face only a mother could love– scratch that, only a _blind_ mother could love– Pizzazz and Jetta’s hair is ridiculous, and Blaze only looks like a woman if you squint a bit and turn your head (sorry, kiddo, but HRT only gets you so far).

“I _might_ be able to forgive them and their two big rivals for looking like freaks if they were, y’know, actually talented– but they’re not. They’re fucking philistines, and so are their fans. Contrast with _me_ , a musical prodigy who was taught at one of Chicago’s most renowned conservatories, who came to this…wretched town to further hone my craft, and who fucking deserved all those contracts they stole from me!

“While _they_ make millions from their homogenized mass-market shit, actual talent like me is forced to play before unappreciative swine in shitty nightclubs! If it weren’t for the surprisingly generous paychecks and the fact that my presence classes up such establishments (even if by some infinitesimal fraction of a percent), I’d have long since left for greener pastures.

“Fortunately for me, I have an ace up my sleeve– a woman who goes by the moniker of ‘The Fox’, who has thus far proven all too willing to aid me in my vendetta for her own unknowable reasons. This is in addition to my other tools–stirring up Internet drama to smear my enemies’ reputation, review-bombing, candid photos for the tabloids (thank you, drones!), and my personal favorite, blackmail. That one got me an inside source for the Misfits, and her name is Leah "Blaze" Dwyer. It wasn’t that hard– a few candid photos, getting a few hormone pill bottles out of her trash, and a threat to out her to the public, and she was all mine to control.

“Though in retrospect, maybe I should out her anyways and see how the public reacts to that bombshell. After all, all’s fair in love and war and revenge.”


	3. Warehouse 85- Troubadour

While we’re waiting for Vasquez to stop killing her taste buds, let’s scout out some of the other acts hanging around this pop stand and get away from that fucktard DJ J.S.B, shall we? Seriously– how he keeps getting work even on this level is just as a mystery as big as how Vasquez can stomach that Mexican rat’s piss without limes. Maybe it’s because he can’t go any lower in terms of prospects, but that’s just me spitballing. Anyhow, best place around here for stories is the bar– after all, those folks on the dance floor probably aren’t in any hurry to answer questions at the moment.

The bar here at Warehouse 58’s actually pretty good for one of these joints– nowhere near the level of one of those lounges and supper clubs up in Beverley Hills or Hollywood or the other parts of the city where all the rich people are, but you can still get a half-decent cocktail around here. Like that guy with the flock of seagulls hair and the Celtic patterned pleather jacket nursing his third or fourth whisky sour. Or the big black guy with a Singapore Sling and an outfit that looks like someone tried to adapt a Swiss Guard uniform into casualwear. Or for that matter, the redhead in the blue dress with an oddly red Cosmo (maybe the bartender put in _way_ too much cranberry juice, ‘cause it looks like blood) and the equally oddly pointy canines.

Hang on– judging from the sound of that beeper, looks like our redhead’s got business. And considering our friend in the pleather jacket looks like he’s too plastered to give us a good story ( _in vino veritas_ only gets you so far) that leaves us with the guy in the Swiss Guard-patterned outfit. Besides, anyone who dresses like that probably has some interesting story, am I right?

Wait a moment. I think I recognize this guy– saw him at a gig at the pier once a while back. His name’s right on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t– oh, now I remember! It’s that Troubadour guy! Not ringing any bells? Figures. Well, let’s see what he has to say…

* * *

**Troubadour**

“You’ve probably heard it a million times before– poor boy from the ghetto who’s good at spinning rhymes and laying down sick beats catches the attention of some record producer hangin’ around a three-martini lunch with a big fat Cuban in his mouth, gets a contract and more money than they thought imaginable, proceeds to throw said money into a hole to answer the question of ‘What’s your pleasure’, meets an early and often violent end, and so it goes.

“I’m trying to avoid that trap, if for no other reason than my parents didn’t raise a fool. Guess I must’ve been one of the lucky kids in my ‘hood, considering that my dad was actually, y’know, involved in my life. Yeah, I know that, if you’ll pardon my French, sounds like some afterschool special shit. But the way I see things, I’ll take being the subject of one of _those_ instead of ending up in a morgue. Anyhow, back to the story.

“My folks and I weren’t exactly top of the pecking order, but we got by, y’know? We coulda made some extra cash working with the gangs, but my grandma had my mom swear on her deathbed that any grandchild of hers would actually make an honest living. In practical terms, that honest living translated to us having a TV with five channels (the usual big 3 plus public access and the local PBS affiliate), a VHS player that was older than I was, a busted-up radio held together by duct tape and tinkering by the handyman next door, an equally busted-up computer, my dad having a library card, and the occasional run to the secondhand bookstore a couple blocks away from our apartment building.

“Yeah, I know it sounds like afterschool special shit. But again, we got by. And we’d have probably just kept on getting by if I hadn’t shown off my little knack for rapping. Lemme give a little context.

“It was a while back– five, six years ago. Folks and I were at a block party, some of the other guys and gals in the ‘hood decided to throw down in a rap battle. Then came my turn, and I went in firing on all cylinders. Don’t really remember what I was rapping about, but that’s not the point. Real point is, after a few more of these battles, I figured it was time to show my skills to the world.

“Friend and I went and put a few of my tracks on…what’s it called, SoundCloud? Anyways, it must’ve caught some attention, because when I checked my email, I saw a message from some guy from a talent agency. Said he was wondering if I wanted to do lunch, I accepted, and thus my career was born.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking– what’s with the name? Well, like I said, big source of entertainment when I was growing up in the ‘hood was books, and one of ‘em was about some wandering musician called a troubadour. After looking it up in the dictionary some years later, I figured that it didn’t just sound cool, but it was kinda fitting for a guy like me.

“And just to get it outta the way, you’re damn right my folks’re getting a cut of my paychecks. It’s the least I can do for ‘em.”


	4. Warehouse 85- Kate o' Nine Tails

Since Vasquez seems to be a lost cause and our pleather-clad friend is now definitively completely hammered, time to see if we can’t find someone else to chew the fat with, especially if that someone is a hot chick with no fucks to give. Like, say, that leggy brunette with the feathered ‘hawk and the red cowhide ensemble moshing on the dance floor. Yeah, I know talking to her now would be an exercise in futility, but give her a few to work up a thirst. Meantime, let’s– oh goddammit, it’s _her_. The platonic fucking ideal of the punk poseur, Little Miss Moneybags– I speak of none other than the one and only Pizzazz. Hopefully, Vasquez’ll go berserk and reenact the event that landed her and the rest of Feathered Serpents on the radar.

Now, l– no, don’t you fucking _dare_ start talking to her. Don’t even make eye contact with that bitch. If it weren’t for the fact that this place was hopping with some of this town’s best obscure acts (and one of its worst), this’d be the part where we blow this pop stand and…I don’t know, hit up that new club in Little Tokyo? Yomi, I think it’s called. Nah, forget it. From what I’ve heard through the grapevine, the cover charge alone could probably buy you a decent seat at a Stingers concert. Besides, at least that fucktard JSB’s off the stage, and it looks like– I’ll be damned. Who knew our mysterious redhead was a member of Bloodlines?

Speaking of mysteries, our leggy brunette’s finally made her way upstairs. And now that I get a good look at her, I know where I’ve seen that face before. It was a couple months back at a place out in the Arts District called La Fundición– industrial rock group called Kate o’ Nine Tails and the Reckoners. And unless my eyes are deceiving me, our friend here is none other than Kate herself. Go on, don’t be shy– after all, someone’s gotta talk first. Though maybe we should wait until after she’s done with that whisky sour. Funny– you’d think a place with this sort of clientele would be serving more vodka than whisky, but them’s the breaks.

* * *

**Kate o’ Nine Tails**

La Fundición had never been designed as a spectator venue of any sort. Hell, it hadn’t really been designed with human activity in mind at first, having started out as an underground storage facility for a steel mill (hence the name “La Fundición”– literally “The Foundry”). Following the steel company’s bankruptcy and the demolition of the mill, it (or more accurately, the property of land covering it) had been passed from owner to owner, with the most recent buyer being one Dana McGinnis– the founder and manager of La Fundición. Thanks to her, what had once been a decaying industrial bunker was now one of the hidden gems of the LA music scene.

* * *

“Hey, _bạn gái_. We’re on in five.” a stockily-built young Vietnamese woman said as she walked up to a distinctly Anglo-looking brunette.

The brunette exhaled. “Don’t remind me, Linh.” she said.

“Butterflies in your stomach, Kate?”

“Yeah– and you’re making them worse.”

Linh let out a small laugh. “Relax! We got this, man! We got this by the ass!”

“I know, b–“

Linh slapped her friend on the back. “Listen, _omae_. When we step out on that stage, those people don’t wanna see Katherine Brown– they wanna see Kate o’ Nine Tails rockin’ out, makin’ noise, and generally being as loud as she can while the rest of us try and keep up.”

* * *

A young man in a Misfits-branded leather jacket turned around in his seat at the bar to face the stage at the far end of the club, a can of beer in his hand and a sour look on his face.

“This’d better be worth all those hoops I had to go through just to get an invite.” he grumbled under his breath. “Because if not, then Rob can expect my resignation letter Monday.”

“ _He’s got his hooks in you too?_ ” a feminine voice asked.

The man turned around to see the source of the question– in this case, a weary-looking brunette with an amateurish-looking bob haircut and a large camera strapped around her neck. “Of _course_ Rob’d go and send someone else on the same assignment as me without giving any form of heads-up.” he sighed.

The woman blinked. “Um, I think you might be mistaken about that. See, I’m doing some photos– something for a top 10 list– not whatever it is you're doing.” 

Just then, the distinctive thumping techno beats of the ambient soundtrack died.

“ _And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Give it up for Kate o’ Nine Tails and the Reckoners!_ ”

Right on cue, dozens of TV screens mounted along the walls and hanging from the ceiling lit up.

* * *

 _Okay– you can do this._ Kate thought, taking a deep breath as she noticed a nearby array of cameras focusing on her and her bandmates. _Just like you and the others’ve been practicing– don’t blow it now. For the love of God, don’t blow it now._ She exhaled and turned to the mic as Linh played the opening riffs.

“ _Suddenly things can change in a minute/no place to run, you’re trapped and you’re in it. Suddenly everything’s washed away– in a tidal wave!_ ” she sang.


	5. UCLA- Danse and Jennifer Lyons

Dancing was in Giselle “Danse” Dvorak’s blood. Once upon a time, her grandmother had wowed audiences on both sides of the Iron Curtain, and her mother had been poised to do the same before the violent breakup of her homeland had forced her to flee to the USA while pregnant with Giselle. Given this background, it was nearly a forgone conclusion that she would pick up something of a passion for the art– perhaps even an unspoken expectation that she would follow in the family tradition.

Irony of ironies then that it was during a visit to her grandmother in Croatia at the tender age of twelve that these expectations were dashed courtesy of a device known as an MRUD– or to use the English translation of its full name, “Mine, Directed Fragmentation”. In the span of an afternoon, Giselle had gone from the latest in a family of dancers to an invalid, her left leg replaced by a clunky, distinctly ungraceful prosthetic from the thigh down. In the intervening years, Giselle would try her damnedest to adapt, to compensate for her wounds, to dance as gracefully as she could on a limb that was seemingly deliberately designed to hinder such things.

Sadly, neither the power of positive thinking nor hours upon hours of practice could entirely make up for the inherent limitations of her prosthesis– the perpetual slight delay between her moving the stump and the movement of the leg itself, the minute difference in weight distribution between the right and left sides of her body, and especially the general feeling of disconnect from her left thigh downward. So naturally, the minute she saw that ad asking for volunteers for some kind of medical trial involving a new kind of prosthetic, she’d applied in a heartbeat.

* * *

As a child, Jennifer Lyons had wanted to be a sculptor. While her parents had never quite disapproved of these interests, the subtle implication was always that their proper place was more in the realm of hobby than career and that she should follow in her parents’ footsteps and go into medicine. Being the good daughter that she was, she ultimately accepted– by the time she’d graduated medical school with a shiny degree in orthotics and prosthetics, the only audience her work would ever see would be herself, her parents, and a few close friends. 

At least until she started work as a prosthetist, that is. It was here where she brought her passion into her work, designing and sculpting naturalistic cases for her patients’ replacement appendages. Yes, it may have been just a little more expensive than to leave the prosthesis unadorned, but so what? If her patients were going to need a mechanical arm or leg for the rest of their lives, why not make it beautiful?

As such, it was little surprise that she was approached to help with Doctor Newark’s bionic limb project, to make it look less like a cobbled-together mass of wires, metal, and experimental myomer “muscles”. By the time the first volunteer walked in through the doors of Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, the first prototype (a leg) looked almost naturalistic.

* * *

**Lyons** :

I look at the bionic limb fitted to Miss Dvorak’s stump as she gives it a few experimental movements– a raise of her knee, a crouch, a kick, walking back and forth from the center of the room to one of the walls, using it to stand on one leg. Her movements are fluid, naturalistic, graceful, as if the prosthesis was a part of her and not some contrivance designed to give her something resembling the normal range of human movement. If not for my part in the development process, I could swear that she had never lost a leg in the first place.

* * *

**Danse** :

I feel a brief sting as the leg connects to the nerves in my stump, only for it to dissipate a moment later. Previously, my prosthesis had always made its presence known– that feeling of uneven weight, of it rubbing against the stump, the shock of every footfall working its way upwards, the absence of feeling my toes and the sole of my foot making contact with the ground. Now? It feels normal. No longer do I have to deliberately think about every step I take– I can just do it. It’s almost liberating– especially when I realize that I can dance like I used to once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I'd like to, I can't claim the idea of Danse being an amputee as my own. That honor goes to Tumblr user stingstingstingers. You can find the original post here:
> 
> https://stingstingstingers.tumblr.com/post/177994710831/here-is-so-far-my-idea-for-the-idw-version-of


	6. Dorsey's- Kent Conolly

For the uninitiated, Dorsey’s Bar and Grill is one of the “hidden gems” of Hollywood’s nightlife– a supper club straight out of days gone by, where a patron can get a good meal, a good drink, and a show by a genuine chanteuse or some up-and-coming local band lucky enough to score the gig. In reality, the drinks’re overpriced and vary wildly in quality (the current bartender can’t make a decent Cosmo, though he does a hell of a job with martinis and whisky sours) the bands are more often than not a joke, and the food is well…actually pretty good, even if their definition of a “well-done” steak translates to “charred enough to shatter if dropped”. Just between you and me, though, I’d skip some of the newer items on the menu, especially the ostrich or the alligator meat– they still haven’t quite figured out how to cook it properly.

Like any Hollywood dining establishment worth its salt, a good chunk of the wait staff’s made up of aspiring actors or musicians just looking to catch the eye of some big shot producer or manager or whoever else is looking for new blood. Some of them are fresh-faced newcomers with nothing to their name but a cheap apartment and a list of talent agencies and casting calls, but others are showbiz veterans out on their luck, past their prime, or both.

Take that guy, for example– the young-looking one with the shaky hands and the anxious look on his face. Not long ago, he was the heartthrob of millions of preteen and teenage girls, the type of man whose poster they’d stare at before making him the main character in trashy fanfics. This poor dope’s name is Kent Connolly– former star of a teen sitcom and now a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown and desperately seeking a job. Seeing as how much of a sorry guy he is, perhaps it’s worth our time to hear just how he got into this situation and how he thinks he’s gonna get out…

* * *

**Kent Connolly**

“Are you a– no, don’t get your hopes up, Kent. All you’d be doing is setting yourself up for disappointment. So, can I bring you the wine list? No? You want to know how I got here? Well, it’s like this. A few years back, I went in to audition for this little show called _School Belles_ – stupid title, I know, but I didn’t name it.

“Anyhow, I was somewhere around sixteen, maybe seventeen when I went in to audition. Apparently, one of the stars decided that he’d go and walk– supposedly had to do about how he was getting paid or something, but it doesn’t matter. All you need to is that I got to play the character filling in the now-vacant role of the lovable jock. And let me tell you, those three or four years were the best years of my life– adoring fans, friendships forged on the set, that feeling of pride when someone recognized me as that guy from that one teen sitcom, you get the idea.

“Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and _School Belles_ was no exception. Terri Bradshaw’s drug abuse? We all knew– hell, I think I covered for her once or twice when she came on set all strung out that one time. Tina Long’s drinking problem? Second verse, same as the first. Honestly, the one that took us by surprise were the sex abuse allegations leveled at some of the show’s producers– and that was the one that sunk the show.

“After the show got cancelled, I tried my hand at going into a proper dramatic career, but given the albatross on my neck, I’d have been lucky to get a role in a commercial. Lucky me that Dahlia– oh, you don’t know Dahlia? Dahlia Shen? The Fox? The chick that took Raya’s place in the Stingers? Yeah, that one. Me and her, we’re tight– one of her cousins was in _School Belles_ and that’s how we met. Anyhow, she decided she’d let me crash on her couch until I got back on my feet– haven’t quite gotten there yet, but it’ll happen. Just need to keep applying for those auditions and job offers, that’s all.

“Of course, staying with Dahlia does have its perks– namely getting to hang with the Stingers! Seriously, Rapture and Minx are so great to be around, and…well, can I help it if I’m kinda sorta crushing on them and they know it? I mean, they always keep saying that they’ll go out with me if I do things for ‘em. Y’know, things like walking around the Galleria in Rapture’s clothing (let me tell you, her panties ride up something fierce!). Or spray-painting “RAYA SUCKS!” on the wall of her family’s nursery. Or…well, come to think of it, maybe I shouldn’t have listened to Minx when she told me to call Kimber and Stormer ‘Beanpole and Fatass’ that one time when Pizzazz was in earshot. And I should’ve probably done the same when Minx dared me to reenact that old SNL sketch at Casa Dwyer (how was I supposed to know Blaze had pepper spray and a baseball bat?) But then again, they helped cover my doctor bills both times, so I guess I’m doing something right.

“Um, can we finish this later? I just got a text from Dahlia– she wants me to pay a visit to this weirdo named Techrat after work and pick up a…distortion modulator and a video distorter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what the old SNL sketch in question is, it's the famous "Landshark" routine from the show's earliest days.


	7. Tír Tairngire– “Robin Goodfellow”

Compared to a lot of the other joints here in Hollywood, O’Malley’s is kinda unremarkable. I mean, just another plain-ass pub? You can find those anywhere around here– hell, you can find those anywhere in LA. Main thing that keeps this place on the map is the music– might have something to do with the fact that the owner’s a long-time vet of that particular side of showbiz, but that’s just me guessing. Anyhow, the guys playing tonight? Some Celtic rock outfit called Tír Tairngire. Apparently, they got their start here a few years back, and this is their idea of a throwback concert. Can’t say I blame ‘em– I mean, if I were a rising star in the music industry, I’d want to go back to my roots every now and again. Back to the topic of hand, see the twins over there? Apparently, they were some of the founding members. Probably worth checking out to hear their st– oh, fuck. It’s _them_.

Who’s ‘them’, you ask? See that guy with the beer? Yeah, the one in the jester outfit. They call themself “Robin Goodfellow” or some shit– I don’t know where they got the name, I don’t care, and I’m kinda impressed they managed to make one of those ornate faerie masks that some of those artsy types show off on the Internet look creepy as fuck. Probably helps that it covers their whole face, but that’s just icing on the ‘something is really fucking wrong’ cake. The rest of that cake’s made up of them being _completely terrifyingly androgynous_. It’s like I’m looking at a fucking mannequin, except that mannequin can move around and talk and play the violin and pull barstools out from beneath patrons and freak people out by just being near them– fuck this shit, I’m outta here! You wanna talk with them? Do it yourself!

* * *

**“Robin Goodfellow”** :

“I am what I am, my friend– a blithe spirit, a merry wanderer of the night gone away to the open spaces. I’ve traveled the world and the seven seas, seen things you people wouldn’t believe, much less understand. Now, you’re probably asking yourself as to why I play with these adepts of the musical arts. The answer is simple– it amuses me. Don’t look at me like that– after all, at the end of the day, isn’t that what the reason for engaging in any hobby, pastime, or creative endeavor ultimately boils down to?

“Now that I’ve answered that particular question, let’s move on to your next– why do I wear the mask and motley? Answer: it’s a reminder. A reminder of what, you may ask? A reminder of my role in life– to play the part of the fool, the jester, the trickster in general, I reply. The Jungian trickster, that is– not a cheap imitation like that Rapture woman, masquerading behind the guise of the mystic. Mark my words– if she keeps playing that role, it’s liable to draw the wrong sort of attention.

“What’s that? You expected to hear more from me? To further learn about my past? To know why I present myself as truly androgynous? Sorry to disappoint, but such things are mine and only mine to know. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I have a drink to return to.”


End file.
